by Dee Yates
‘You knew my mother?’ Liz says in amazement.
‘Aye, I did.’ Malcolm comes over to them and draws up a chair. ‘Jeannie looked after me and my brother when we were wee. But I thought she got killed in the Glasgow bombing, along with my mother and my baby sister.’ He frowns at Tam.
‘That’s what I had always believed until a few days ago when Liz here walked in and found me. Jeannie had survived against all the odds. Somehow she ended up in London and stayed there. She’s died now, but only last year.’ Tam shakes his head. ‘All that time apart when we could have been together.’
‘So why was she looking after you?’ Liz turns to Malcolm. ‘I thought she was a land girl.’
‘Malcolm and his brother Ian had been evacuated and were staying on the Cunninghams’ farm,’ Tam explains. ‘They all came – their mother and baby sister and the two lads. Then their father was killed in action, really early in the war and Alice took them all back to Glasgow. But the boys came back to the village later, when the threat of bombing increased.’
‘Jeannie was the land girl at Bob Cunningham’s,’ Malcolm goes on. ‘She helped look after us. She was fun. She played with us and met us from school and took us to Tam’s house for tea. That was how I first got to know Tam. You know what young boys are – they like to have a hero and he was mine!’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Tam grunts, ‘But what I do know is that Malcolm was a lifesaver. After I had lost your mum and come back to carry on the farm, I was very low, as I explained earlier. But Malcolm started coming regularly to the farm and helping.’
‘I remember deciding, almost as soon as I came down here, that I wanted to be a farmer,’ Malcolm said. ‘My brother Ian, he was no’ so keen. I helped at the Cunninghams’ farm, but what I liked best was to go over the moor to Tam’s. He taught me a lot about farming. We had to go to school and that was not so far from Tam’s cottage. Do you remember the presents the older ones made for you that Christmas?’
‘Aye, the cradle. And you made a Noah’s Ark and nearly lost your fingers in the process!’
Malcolm holds up his hand to demonstrate his old injury.
‘After the war, we stayed on with Rob and Agnes. There was no one back home now to care for us and Agnes reckoned there was room enough for us both. They were very good to us. Neil, their son, was no’ so happy about the arrangement, but it wasn’t his decision. My brother Ian, he was older than me. He went to study in Glasgow and eventually became an architect. I stayed on till I left school and then went to agricultural college.’
‘By the time you’d finished, I was out of my farm, wasn’t I, pal?’
‘Aye. First your father died suddenly and then Rob unexpectedly got ill and died. And Neil, totally unknown to me, stopped the tenancy and booted you off. I could never understand how Rob and Agnes who were so generous could have a son who was so mean-spirited. It was Agnes who told me where you were staying.’
‘And you’ve been coming to see me ever since, haven’t you, pal?’
‘Not as often as I should like, but that’s farming for you.’
‘Where do you farm?’ Liz asks.
Malcolm turns to Liz with a smile and she notices how the action makes his cheeks dimple and the corners of his eyes crease into crows’ feet. ‘I took over a farm across the border in Dumfriesshire. I’ve retired now, more or less, and my sons do the hard work. I still live with them – see that they’re doing the job right! It’s company for me now that my wife’s died. And what about you? Where have you been hiding all these years?
‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it sometime.’
46. Endings
August 2002
At last Liz feels that she is gaining control of the exuberance of her garden plants brought on by the prolonged spell of good weather. The grass has been cut and edged, the last of the lupins cut back and the flower beds weeded. She must make an attempt to dig up the invasive ground elder, but first, she thinks, she has earned a drink.
The pub is crowded, many of those gathered being farmers. There must be some kind of meeting about to start, she decides. She will get a drink and take it outside to the picnic bench. It is, in any case, too good a day to waste it indoors. A few of the locals recognise her and nod a welcome as she goes up to the bar and asks for a glass of wine.
‘Allow me to get this for you, Liz.’
She turns in surprise to see Malcolm detaching himself from a group, none of whom are known to her.
‘What are you doing here? Is there some kind of farming get-together? I nearly walked out when I saw the crowd!’
‘You’ve not heard then? Old Neil Cunningham’s died – you remember Tam and I talking about him when we met at the care home. He lived up the valley.’ Malcolm pays for her drink and they walk outside to the bench and sit down.
‘I met Neil Cunningham last year,’ Liz tells him. ‘I’ll not forget him in a hurry. I sought him out to see if he could tell me anything about the man who used to live in my cottage – because when I was looking round it I had seen a photo of my mother – that photo that my father has by his bed.’ She gazes into the distance. ‘I didn’t like him at all. He made me feel uncomfortable – and he wasn’t at all helpful. He gave me to understand that my father had died. What was it he said? “He’s gone,” he said to me. “Gone a few months ago.” I took that to mean that he had died.’
‘Well, now Neil Cunningham’s died and there’ll not be many round here who’ll miss him.’
‘So, you’ve all been to his funeral?’
‘No, we’ve all been to the auction of his farm! You see, he never married and there are no children. His sister stays down in the borders. Sarah and her husband are more or less retired now and live in a farm cottage. Their lad farms the land. They have no idea of coming back this way, being settled down there.’
‘Are you interested in the farm?’
‘My son, rather than me. I’ve the two sons. They had an idea to buy this farm, so the older one will stay on the family farm and the younger move here.’
‘So, are they with you, your sons?’
‘Of course. I’ll go and fetch them out. They were busy being congratulated.’
‘They won the bidding then?’
‘Aye, subject to one or two checks being made.’
Malcolm gets up to go and find his family but is saved the journey back into the pub by the appearance of one of his sons at the open door.
‘Come over here, lad, and meet Liz. Liz, this is young Tam.’
Liz’s eyes open wide and, with a grin, she shakes the proffered hand.
‘I told you your father was my hero!’ Malcolm laughs.
‘Congratulations, young Tam. I understand you’ve bought a farm. Is it you or your brother who will be moving here?’
‘It’s myself. We were treading on one another’s toes a bit, working in the same place. And my father was brought up in these parts, so it will be good for him to move back here.’
‘You mean you’re coming too?’ Liz turns to Malcolm.
‘Well, it’s not decided yet, though I must admit the idea is very appealing.’
‘Are you having another, Dad?’ young Tam says, picking up his father’s empty half-pint glass.
‘Nay, lad. Actually, I was thinking of popping over to see old Tam while I was out this way. I guess you and Kenneth will want to stay and celebrate with your mates for a while. I can pick you up again on the way back. Liz, would you like to accompany me on a quick visit to your dad?’
‘As long as you’re driving.’ She lifts her empty glass. ‘I can’t say I’m sorry to leave the rest of the gardening till another day.’
‘Though you realise all the weeds will be back as soon as your back is turned.’
Liz gets up laughing and follows Malcolm out to his car.
On the way, she tells him the long story about Jeannie and herself and their life in London.
*
There is a month in which Liz
and her father enjoy one another’s company. She visits every day. They share memories of their past, recalling times both difficult and less so. She wants to bring him to the cottage for a visit, to see the alterations she has made and to allow him to give his seal of approval on the garden, but on the day before his intended visit, his health suddenly deteriorates.
‘Mrs Deighton?’ It is the nursing home. ‘We think you should come and see your father. He is not so well this morning. The doctor has been called and says it’s his heart that is failing.’
It is as the doctor has said. Tam is breathless. He slips in and out of consciousness. Liz is distraught at the realisation that she is going to lose her father so soon after finding him. She sits at the bedside holding his warm wrinkled hand in hers, unable to help.
‘Liz,’ he whispers. ‘Ring Malcolm and tell him I am dying. If he’s no’ too busy, I would like to see him again before I go.’
Of course. Why has she not thought of this herself? She rests his hand gently on the covers and leaves the room.
It is young Tam who answers the phone.
‘May I speak to your father, Tam.’
‘I’m sorry, Liz. He’s on his way to see your father at the moment. Can I take a message?’
Liz smiles. ‘No thanks, that’s all I wanted to know.’
By the time Malcolm arrives, only twenty minutes later, Tam is unconscious again, his breathing full and slow. But, as if he knows that Malcolm has arrived, he stirs and opens his eyes.
‘I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to thank you for keeping me going when I thought all hope was lost. If it weren’t for you, I might not have been here to be united with my daughter.’ He struggles to transfer his gaze to his daughter. ‘I wish it had been longer,’ he murmurs.
‘Me too.’ Liz chokes back tears.
‘But don’t be sad. I’m going to meet Jeannie again, after all these years. More than sixty, I reckon. Do you think she’ll recognise me?’ He smiles at her and is still smiling when he draws a last laboured breath and slowly lets it out again.
*
In the early hours of a sharply scented autumnal day, Liz walks through the forest of aging conifers. Small rocks make the path uneven and she has frequently to watch her step for fear of twisting an ankle, but after a while the way home turns off the track, through a narrow pass between trees, marked out with boggy moss and a faint trickle of water, over a broken stone dyke and into an opening. The uneven ground shows where trees once stood. New seeds have taken root and saplings are growing haphazardly over the space. She has learned that not so long ago it was the site of a fire, deliberate or otherwise no one knows nor has bothered to investigate. Along the base of the valley, a skein of mist hides the river from her view, but on the opposite hill, the village, and her cottage in particular, are clear in the fresh dawn light.
Not for the first time, she considers how lucky she is to have found the cottage for sale, this cottage that was her father's for so many years, just at the time she was looking for a home of her own. Here she has a contentment she never thought possible. This place is hers to put her mark on, to do with as she wishes. Here she rejoices in her solitude, for it is of her own choosing and not imposed on her by another. And, at any time, she can decide to break it to visit or be visited, to go on holiday, to stay at home, be silent, play loud music, watch a television programme of her choice. And, if she wishes, to love again.
She has found the cradle, wrapped in an old hessian sack and secreted in a corner of the outhouse. In its base is the box containing Noah’s Ark and Alec’s animals. Both are perfectly preserved. She has taken them indoors, where they now decorate a corner of her bedroom. One day her grandchildren will visit her, and the presents, so lovingly made, will come into their own at last.
She knows now with absolute certainty that David never had any intention of leaving his wife and family to set up home with her and the realisation comes as a release. There have, of course, been many times over the years when this thought has flashed into her mind, but she has seldom allowed it to fester. On the rare occasions that she has considered his possible duplicity, she has grown depressed.
At last she realises that he is the one who is the poorer, for he is left with the remains of a life from which he said he wanted to escape, and she does not think he has stayed out of a wish to make it up with his wife. More, a fear of stepping out into the unknown and a dread of losing face. Losing face is nothing too dreadful, Liz knows now. It is a nine days’ wonder. People forget. And those who don’t are not worth having as friends.
The alternative is that their relationship was a dalliance from start to finish. His recent behaviour would seem to support this. His eagerness to keep in contact with her, she considers, is merely to keep her sweet, to stop her spilling the beans, which she could easily do. But he isn’t worth it. She has told him that the relationship is at an end. He has, of course, tried to make contact, as she knew he would. She has ignored these overtures and is surprised how right this feels.
Although the day is early, she can feel the warm sun on her back. Crossing the clearing, she weaves between fallen tree trunks and picks up a path that descends muddily to the valley bottom. The river is low, splitting and joining and splitting again, sections of the riverbed exposed to the air by the shallowness. A dipper darts from under the bridge with the vibration of her footsteps. It skims the surface of the water and she stops to watch its bobbing salute from the safety of a rock further downstream.
Her skin is damp with perspiration as she climbs the hill towards the cottage.
Tabitha, who has been sitting on the wall surveying the graveyard, as silent as its occupants, jumps down and winds herself round Liz’s legs, as she unfastens the gate.
‘Now then, pussycat. Have you been waiting? It’s nice to know someone loves me.’
She unlocks the back door and the cat runs in ahead of her and stops at the fridge, meowing.
‘Oh, so it’s milk you’re wanting, is it? I didn’t think it would be only to show me love and affection.’
Liz fills the kettle and puts it on to boil. She makes a mug of tea, adds milk and stoops to add some to the bowl at her feet.
The cat finishes her milk. With dainty steps, she walks into the conservatory. Her mistress is standing at the French windows, looking out over the graveyard, where a fresh grave awaiting its headstone is covered with the remains of a show of autumn flowers.
After a minute or two, Liz turns and comes to sit on the settee, taking a sip from her mug of tea. Tabitha, as comfortable with her new owner as she was with her last, jumps onto Liz’s lap, ignoring her protests, circles twice slowly and deliberately, sits down and begins to clean her whiskers.
Acknowledgements
Thanks go to:
Iain Brown of Cardross, for his personal recollections of the Clydebank bombing
Janet Telfer, for her memories of wartime childhood and evacuees
Steven Johnstone, my Scottish son-in-law, for reading the first draft and for his helpful comments (and pointing out that 'wains' should be 'weans'!)
Aria Publishers, for their help and patience and being the friendliest group of people I've ever had the pleasure to work with.
Bibliography
Chronology of World War II. Compiled by Christopher Argyle, 1980.
Daer Before the Dam. Bessie J B MacArthur.
Scotland’s Land Girls. Breeches, Bombers and Backaches. Edited by Elaine M Edwards.
The Scottish Farmer Albums 1939–1945.
When the Clyde Ran Red. Maggie Craig.
Whitecleugh School Diary 1911–1953.
About the Author
Born and brought up in the south of England, the eldest girl of nine children, Dee Yates moved north to Yorkshire to study medicine. She remained there, working in well woman medicine and general practice and bringing up her three daughters. She retired slightly early at the end of 2003, in order to start writing, and wrote two books in the next three years
. In 2007 she moved further north, to the beautiful Southern Uplands of Scotland. Here she fills her time with her three grandsons, helping in the local museum, the church and the school library, walking, gardening and reading. She writes historical fiction, poetry and more recently non-fiction. Occasionally she gets to compare notes with her youngest sister Sarah Flint who writes crime with blood-curdling descriptions which make Dee want to hide behind the settee.
Become an Aria Addict
Aria is the digital-first fiction imprint from Head of Zeus.
We are Aria, a dynamic digital-first fiction imprint from award-winning independent publishers Head of Zeus. At heart, we’re avid readers committed to publishing exactly the kind of books we love to read — from romance and sagas to crime, thrillers and historical adventures. Visit us online and discover a community of like-minded fiction fans!
We’re also on the look out for tomorrow’s superstar authors. So, if you’re a budding writer looking for a publisher, we’d love to hear from you. You can submit your book online at ariafiction.com/we-want-read-your-book
Get in touch: [email protected]
Become an Aria Addict
www.ariafiction.com/we-want-read-your-book
@Aria_Fiction
@ariafiction
@ariafiction
Addictive Fiction